


Strangers

by inber



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Boys Kissing, First Kiss, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Insecure Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jealousy, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Canon Compliant, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:35:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23960053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inber/pseuds/inber
Summary: This was the first Geralt x Jaskier fic that I ever wrote. I was trying to get a feel for them together. Basically, it's your classic Jealous!Geralt, Oblivious!Jaskier situation.Or: Jaskier is tired of trying to get Geralt to see how he feels. Drunk and worn-down, he flirts with another man – and Geralt finally begins to see the bard that’s been beside him all this time.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 19
Kudos: 460





	Strangers

The surface of the wine was still and reflective, and Jaskier hated the man that stared back at him.

He hated that he’s still awake in the sneaky hours before dawn, hated that he’s getting into his third jug of wine for the evening, hated that Geralt was silent and unresponsive beside him. At the beginning of the evening, he was fortunate enough to engage the Witcher in snippets of conversation, but now if he tried, he got a quiet hum or a simple, steady glance of gilded disinterest.

He should be upstairs, he thought; he should be asleep, or have his face nestled between the tits of some lovely noblewoman, or beard-rash on his thighs from another man’s stubble. The thought made his cock twitch in his pants, but perhaps because he was peeking at Geralt’s silvery scrape of a shadow that grows on the harsh line of his jaw. All the times he’d thought about how it’d feel against his lute-calloused fingertips. All the times he’d wanted to touch, perceived an opportunity, and had been too _scared._

It wasn’t as though he was subtle with his affections. He showered the Witcher with attention, with care; when they were on the road, he saw to it that Geralt got to eat first, or that there was enough firewood to keep him warm, or if he wasn’t sleeping, he’d at least have cups of tea to drink. He wrote songs for the man – not just of his conquests and adventures, but of his beauty, his strength, his steady kindness. Gods have mercy, he’d composed a song about the Witcher’s _hair_ and the way the breeze braided it with unseen hands – although he only played that one quietly alone, as if fiddling with the melody, casually amusing himself at the campfire.

The most he ever got for his efforts was a gruff, “Thank you”, or if he was _supremely_ lucky, the smallest quirk of a smile. He dreamed about that smile. It haunted him behind the pitch of his closed eyelids.

After his first nightmare about losing Geralt to the jaws of some unspeakable monstrosity, he’d jolted awake in their shelter in a panic. The Witcher awakened too, alert, expecting danger. When he found none to be had, he’d told Jaskier that nightmares were for children, and had rolled over angrily, searching for sleep again. That was the first time Jaskier had realised he was in love with Geralt. It was also the first time he’d left the camp to cry by a stream in the private dark, muffling his distress with both hands, aching in the hollow space of unrequited feeling.

He _should_ have left him then, he knew. Should have parted ways at the first town and thrown himself into his career, into people that adored and wanted him. But somehow he could not leave the brooding brute; it hurt more to think of him walking the world alone than to stick at his side, a love-struck fool with a penchant for masochism. And here he was, in some Gods-forsaken end-of-the-world inn, staying up far too late _again_ because his friend found some solace in the warmth of the place.

The inn-keep had long since retired to bed with a threat about how he knew his supplies; if they were to help themselves, they’d best be leaving coin for it. Jaskier had waved his acquiescence at the man; Geralt had ignored him. They sat, and they drank, and were silent.

Creaking of door-hinges stole Jaskier’s attention from his miserable reverie, and he peered curiously at a wearied traveller who stumbled in from the cold, clearly looking around for someone of authority to ask for a room or drink. The man was handsome; he was in his prime with a tumble of cornsilk curly hair, and the bard was drunk enough to quash down his pining long enough to play at host. If Geralt didn’t want his company, perhaps this stranger did.

“Well met!” He spoke, rising from the booth he’d been sat at for much of the night, “The keeper has retired to bed, I’m afraid, but he’s left us a supply of ale and wine and food. May I fetch you something?”

The stranger smiled; he had a gap between his front teeth that Jaskier found endearing, and he felt his own lips curve to return the gesture. “That would be most appreciated, my good friend…?”

“Jaskier.” The bard dipped his head, extending a hand; the blonde took it with both of his, gripping securely.

“I beg your pardon, but… _the_ Jaskier?” His question was answered when his dark forest eyes fell upon the unmissable form of Geralt, who was watching the duo with what seemed like a hawkish interest, as if they were both to be prey. “Gods, _wow._ I’ve heard so many of your songs sung. I greatly admire your use of metaphor. Never thought I’d be shaking your hand!”

Jaskier felt heat rise to his cheeks; he was often praised, but there was something wholesome and sincere about this man, and it felt nice. He felt wanted. “You’re kind.” He purred flirtatiously, slipping around the bar to pour two cups of wine, slicing into a loaf of day-old bread like a woodsman with a fallen log. “I’m just a bard.”

“No,” The man corrected, “ _I’m_ just a bard. You’re _Jaskier the bard._ The one who walks with the White Wolf, who–” He cut himself off. “Forgive me, again. My name is Lorn of Creyden. Well met, Jaskier, Geralt of Rivia.” The cup of wine placed before him was lifted in a toast to both men. Jaskier returned the salute; Geralt merely stared.

“I apologise for my companion,” Jaskier hopped atop the bar to perch his rear, “He’s not verbose. A bard, you say? What is your instrument of choice?”

Geralt watched the two men chatting and drinking, and felt the dark stalk of something angry leaving tracks across the pit of his stomach. The foreign feeling made him unsettled; he couldn’t place it, not _exactly._ All he really knew was that this Lorn individual was leaning closer and closer to Jaskier, and the way they laughed and touched one another’s arms made him want to pick up a chair and throw it.

He’d have to be stupid not to know that Jaskier had an interest in him. The key word, in Geralt’s mind, was _had._ The Witcher was used to hero worship, and he found it entirely boring. He kept Jaskier at arm’s length, letting him work the feelings out himself, fawn over his cursed mutant bullshit power. Enough of this treatment began to dull the spark, and the Witcher found himself torn between satisfied and oddly annoyed when Jaskier began to withdraw. The irritation simply grew when the bard just didn’t _leave_ him, like he should; he was constantly surprised when Jaskier ignored requests to stay for length in a wealthy town, or turned down invitations to vacation at fine castles. The man was a fool, Geralt thought. Humans had such ideas about adventure and grand destiny, when all the rough road had to offer was the promise of death, cold nights, and wild hunger.

The glint of his molten metal stare flicked as Lorn laughed at one of Jaskier’s remarks, leaning in, placing his hand on the bard’s shoulder. The pacing blackness slithered up his chest and coiled around his heart, forcing a harder beat. His fingers tightened around the mug of ale in his hands.

“I swear it!” Jaskier giggled, pouring Lorn more wine, “I swear to _all_ the Gods that he _tamed_ that beastly griffin. The village was in an uproar about a missing sheep – _one_ sheep – and he just… walks up to the nest, discovers the creature has a baby, and…” The bard made a sweeping gesture with his hand, “Did some _Witcher thing,_ I don’t know. But it left. They didn’t pay us, the bastards, because we didn’t return with the claws. But that’s how it goes, sometimes.”

“You speak highly of him.” Lorn murmured, unaware that there wasn’t a register he could whisper at that Geralt would not pick up, “Are you…?”

Jaskier flushed, and looked down at the wine. “Gods, no. _Me?_ ” He forced a chuckle, “I’m not enough for a Witcher. _Just a bard_ , like you.”

The words hit Geralt with the force of a harpy’s wing-beat; he felt robbed of breath, sucker-punched, as though the floor had yielded and he was now falling in endless silence. _Not enough?_ Jaskier _thought…_

And the shadowy serpent within him finally sunk its fangs, the venom of jealousy streaming into Geralt’s veins with every slow beat of his mutant heart. He didn’t _understand_. He could not understand that Jaskier might want him beyond a mentor to shadow, beyond some mystical figure of folklore that might bring him riches. How could _anyone_ want him? What did he have to give? All of those thoughts forked through his mind like lightning licks, scorching in their wake, and he finally **saw.**

He saw Lorn squeezing Jaskier’s wrist, rubbing the inside of it with his thumb. He heard the low murmur of comfort – that the bard _was_ enough, for anyone, that anyone would be lucky to call him theirs. These words should be _his,_ spoken in _his_ voice; that hand should be _his_. He should be the one leaning in, seeking a first feathery kiss.

Geralt hadn’t realised he’d moved until he’d shoved Lorn away from Jaskier physically, the warning growl of a beast’s wrath wracking his lungs. The other bard stumbled into a table, nearly falling over the furniture, but finding footing. Frightened, he reacted as any human faced with a looming Witcher might; his body chose flight, and the sound of the inn’s door slamming in his wake was a loud echo in the emptied place.

Jaskier stared, stunned into silence at the events that had transpired. And then anger boiled up, the suppression of rejection and the ache of closeness he’d been denied; he gripped Geralt by the shoulders and pushed, dismounting the bar, standing. “What in the name of the _Gods_ do you think you’re _doing?_ ” He shouted, hating that tears were blurring his bleary, drunk-hazy vision, “I liked him!”

“No you didn’t.” Geralt snapped, hardly moving from the aggression, facing the bard head-on. His presence was massive, but as ever, Jaskier faced it without a flinch. “He wasn’t _good_ for you.”

“He wasn't—!” Jaskier spluttered, before gritting his teeth, weaving his fingers into his hair. “Since when do you care who is _good for me_ , Geralt? Since when do you give a damn about **anything** but your coin and your stupid horse? I don’t need you at my back like–”

“ _You are enough._ ” Geralt snarled, cutting the bard off, the heat of his wolfish eyes blazing into the tear-filled lakes of blue that stared him down, betrayal turning to confusion. “You’re _more_ than I deserve.”

Jaskier’s mouth hung open as a single salty drop rolled wetly down his cheek, curving at his chin to suspend in a glisten. Unable to bear the sight, Geralt brushed the sorrow away with his knuckle, held the bard’s jaw gently in the apex of his forefinger and thumb, and bent down to kiss him.

For the smallest moment Jaskier did not respond, and Geralt felt the hitch of panic snap at his distressed chest; but then the bard was giving himself wholly, his warm, plush lips eager against the Witcher’s, the two men pouring the emotion of grief and jealousy and missed opportunity and lust and _love_ into the space between them. Jaskier groaned into Geralt’s mouth and the larger man eagerly licked the sound from his tongue, teeth-on-teeth in a clumsy clash as they discovered the fit of one another, the hunger, the flushing sate of a long-seated desire met. When they finally parted, both were breathing hard; Jaskier’s lips were beard-brushed and reddened, and Geralt’s pupils were blown wide in a stare of feral fierceness that nearly robbed all the gold from his irises.

Geralt smiled, gently. That little gesture that could make Jaskier weak at the knees, the one he had memorised obsessively. The Witcher’s features seemed lighter somehow, softer. “How long…?” Was all that Jaskier could think to ask, enthralled and terrified in equal measures.

“I don’t know.” Geralt’s hot-gravel voice was low, “I think… _longer_ than I’d admit to myself. I can’t always… remember how to do _this_ , Jaskier.” He made a gesture between the two of them, and the smaller man understood. Feelings were complex. A good Witcher wasn’t _supposed_ to feel.

“That’s okay.” Jaskier hummed, finally brushing his aching fingertips through the coarse stubble on the leonine slope of the Witcher’s jaw, “I’ll teach you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I can also be found on tumblr: @inber


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